


Borrowed Scars

by dreamsofspike



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Body Swap, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-16 22:40:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21278897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamsofspike/pseuds/dreamsofspike
Summary: The angel and the demon choose their faces wisely, and escape having won their safety - for the time being - but not without sustaining a few injuries on their borrowed corporations. The marks on the body he's wearing are nothing Aziraphale can't heal before he gives it back. But some scars go deeper than the skin - and some secrets reside just a little too close to the surface to remain hidden for long.





	Borrowed Scars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WhiteleyFoster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteleyFoster/gifts).

> This story was written for the lovely and talented Whiteley Foster, who requested some mutual hurt/comfort following the body swap, with a bit more focus on some comfort for Aziraphale than is usually found in my work. ;) 
> 
> This story was betaed by my dear, sweet friend boughofawillowtree <3 <3 <3 Thanks so very much, love!!! *hugs* 
> 
> Content Notice: This story contains references to off-screen torture and implied past non-con, but nothing at all explicit.

“I think it would be best for everyone if I were to be left alone in the future. Don’t you?” 

Aziraphale laced the words with subtle menace; anything more harshly threatening would have been severely out of character, he knew; but he also knew how effective Crowley’s eerie, otherworldly eyes could be - if one happened to be unaware of the unbearable softness of the heart that hid behind them. 

With a deceptive smile on Crowley’s lips, Aziraphale cast Crowley’s fierce golden gaze around the room at each of the presiding demons in turn - and even at Michael, who stood there staring, dumbfounded. 

Her meek, silent little nod was  _ immensely  _ satisfying. 

He got out of the bathtub with as much grace and dignity as he could manage while standing there in Crowley’s underclothing, using the towel Michael had provided to soak up as much of the water as possible, while turning his gaze - as casually as possible - toward the assembled demonic audience behind the glass. 

He met the fearful, shocked eyes of several of them, gratified and reassured when they looked away, or  _ backed _ away, or even scuttled from the viewing area, eager to get as far from him as possible. There was one particular set of eyes he was looking for - and he wasn’t sure whether he was disappointed or relieved to find them absent. 

  
  
  


_ “I’ve waited for this for a long time, Crowley…”  _

_ Blood red eyes locking on, arresting his gaze, somehow glowing with the fires of hell and a depth of impenetrable darkness at the same time, as rough, dry hands slid over bound, exposed flesh.  _

_ Not his own flesh,  _ Crowley’s,  _ and he couldn’t stop it, couldn’t protect him from the pain and the terror and the sheer humiliation…  _

_ The shattering of his heart, Crowley’s eyes welling with hot tears as he whispered in a voice so achingly familiar and beloved that he couldn’t stand to hear it so rough and broken.  _

_ “Please…” _

  
  
  


“It’s best that you  _ leave now _ ,” Beelzebub demanded, clearly aiming for threatening - but the taut, anxious tremor in their voice was unmistakable. “You’re upsetting the crowd, and I won’t be responsible for what happens to you if you don’t  _ get out of here _ .” 

Aziraphale perused the dwindling audience again, speculative. He dipped his fingers casually into the tub again, then flicked the water at the glass, smiling when the demons reacted in terror, some flinching away - others fleeing the viewing area entirely. 

“Yes,” he drawled, Crowley’s voice coming out satisfyingly low and unimpressed. “I’m  _ so  _ very frightened.” 

He turned toward Beelzebub and shook the remaining holy water from his fingers in their general direction. There was enough distance between the two of them that the water didn’t come anywhere near touching the demon lord. Still, they flinched, just a little, dropping their gaze and swallowing slowly - and Crowley’s lips curled into a sly, knowing smile. 

Aziraphale took his time, getting into Crowley’s shirt and jacket and jeans - although admittedly, the jeans left him with little option... and with the certainty that Crowley  _ must have  _ ordinarily simply miracled his way into them. But a miraculous display, here, even the smallest one, might reveal a bit more of his angelic nature than he wanted. So Aziraphale silently thanked whatever Power might still be looking out for a wayward angel alone in the bowels of Hell that the few remaining demons in the room seemed to be studiously  _ avoiding _ watching him too closely - and he took his time. 

Even if he was by this point simply  _ desperate _ to be gone from this place. 

When he finally, at his leisure, took his leave, he maintained the facade of cool indifference, doing his best imitation of Crowley’s cock-sure swagger, as he made his way back to the demon’s flat. He couldn’t be sure if anyone might be watching, and didn’t want to do anything to give away their ruse,  _ now _ , when it was so close to success. 

Only once the door had firmly closed behind him with a reassuring  _ click _ did Aziraphale finally allow himself to relax. 

Or...  _ try _ to relax. 

He couldn’t seem to manage it. 

His heart was racing with an audible sound he could feel pounding in his head; his fingers trembled as he unbuttoned Crowley’s shirt and unfastened the impossibly tight jeans. Aziraphale drew in a deep, shaky breath, closing his eyes for a moment as he tried to steady himself against the onslaught of fresh, vivid memory. 

  
  
  


_ “I’ve missed you, Crowley…”  _

_ The echo of measured footfalls on cold stone as the much larger demon circles him… patient and predatory. With a snap of the demon’s fingers, Aziraphale finds himself chained by the wrists from the ceiling, toes barely touching the floor, heart racing when he tests the iron and finds it unbreakable. The chains are universal, it seems - effective on both angels and demons - and he can’t free himself.  _

_ Not that he could free himself, anyway. Not now.  _

_ A miracle here might reveal his true nature. Might endanger their entire plan.  _

_ Might endanger  _ Crowley _ .  _

_ By the time the demon is finished with him Aziraphale is  _ grateful _ for the all-purpose chains that prevent his escape - because he’s quite certain that without them, he wouldn’t have been able to help himself.  _

  
  
  


Aziraphale carefully folded Crowley’s clothing and laid it across the back of a chair, although he knew that he was going to be putting it back on again in a few minutes. It was simply habit for the angel, this meticulous process of dressing and undressing, although it wasn’t strictly necessary. 

And it was a distraction - a few moments longer before he had to take in the damage that had been inflicted on his friend’s slender frame. 

Fragile… so alarmingly  _ fragile _ Crowley was, physically, in comparison to most demons. 

Aziraphale wondered how he’d never realized it before. 

  
  
  


_ “I considered using a blessed weapon for this,” the red-eyed demon fairly purrs, sliding his fingers slowly along the razor’s edge of the simple steel blade in his hands. “But it’s best not to take too many chances, yes? Lord Beelzebub would be rather… put out, if I happened to accidentally discorporate you... before they get their chance to  _ destroy  _ you…” _

  
  
  


Aziraphale shivered as he traced his fingertips across the nasty, deep cuts that criss-crossed Crowley’s torso - the dark red welts that underlaid them, from the lash that preceded the blade. 

Blessed weapons would have had no more had an effect on him than the holy water had, and would have given away their ruse too early. 

He supposed he should be grateful. 

He swallowed hard, steeling his focus, trying to shut out the memory and concentrate all his energy on healing his injuries. He closed his eyes - but that only made the images that flooded his mind all the more vivid. 

  
  
  


_ “You can’t do this…”  _

_ He hates that there’s more fear in his voice than defiance, as he twists uselessly against the restraints, drawing in a sharp breath as the demon viciously applies the blade again.  _

_ “We both know I can,” he hisses into Crowley’s ear, cruel and suggestive. “I’ve paid a steep price for the privilege of a few moments alone with you again, before the end…  _ your _ end… and I intend to get what I paid for…”  _

  
  
  


_ Again.  _

The single word echoed in Aziraphale’s mind as he redressed in Crowley’s clothes, his friend’s body carefully healed of any trace of physical damage. He was going to return it in exactly the same condition in which he’d borrowed it - with no remnant of disturbing evidence to reveal to Crowley all that he’d suffered while wearing his form. 

_ He’d feel guilty, if he knew… and there’s no reason for him to carry such guilt… _

_ Or is it  _ you  _ that’s carrying it? The burden of what you allowed to be done to his body?  _

With a rather forceful mental effort, Aziraphale managed to put the troubling questions out of his mind, along with the memories. He tried to focus on the bright sunlight filtering through the trees in the park… the crisp, autumn air carrying the scents of delicious foods from the various vendors. 

By the time he and Crowley were seated on their usual bench, side by side - he’d almost managed it. 

The switch back was seamless, and Aziraphale even managed a convincing laugh or two as they shared stories of their exploits while switched. And after all, he  _ was _ fairly pleased with himself, for how convincingly he’d played the part of Crowley, and the genuine fear he’d settled in the hearts of the demon’s enemies. 

“They were truly terrified,” he recounted with smug amusement, over their dinner at the Ritz. 

Crowley grinned at him across the table, his eyes as usual obscured by his sunglasses - and all at once Aziraphale was struck by the fact that he’d never have  _ known _ ... never even have  _ suspected _ ... if he hadn’t experienced it for himself. 

He thought back over the many times he’d met with Crowley, just back from a trip to Hell to handle whatever business might have been required of him, and wondered how many of those times Crowley might have been just  _ pretending _ to be all right. Covering pain and terror with a smirk and a bit of swagger. Feigning nonchalance while he was quietly falling apart inside. 

A bit like Aziraphale was doing right then. 

“I imagine they’ll steer clear a while.” 

“They will,” Aziraphale agreed, the satisfaction in his tone shifting to solemn certainty. “They won’t  _ dare _ to come after you, love.”

“Nor you,” Crowley reminded him with an appreciative little nod. “Not anytime soon.” 

_ But eventually… _

The words hung unspoken between them; they both knew better than to imagine that their actions would buy them permanent freedom. It was a temporary reprieve, and they’d both known that going in. 

But now, Aziraphale knew what might be waiting for Crowley on the other side of that reprieve. 

He didn’t bring it up, not until they were safe in the privacy of his own little apartment above the bookshop - and even then, only after they’d settled in comfortably close on the sofa, and he’d had a couple of drinks to steady his nerves a bit. 

“How’d they treat you?” he asked at last, careful and guarded, not able to bring himself to look at Crowley as he spoke. “Before the… execution, I mean.” 

Crowley regarded him with a single raised brow, silently questioning. 

“Did anyone… harm you, in any way?” Aziraphale clarified. 

“Eh,” Crowley shrugged, looking away. “Not much. Bit of unnecessary manhandling. A punch in the face when Gabriel thought I was a bit too mouthy. Couple bruises, small price to pay.” 

Aziraphale nodded slowly, staring down at his drink. “But you… healed it, before we met up in the park.” 

“No, they did.” Crowley scoffed, softly derisive. “Just wouldn’t  _ look _ right, would it? Sending a guy to his death all beat up. Might have inspired a bit too much sympathy. Heaven’s got to keep up appearances, yeah?” 

Aziraphale took a rather larger gulp of his drink than he’d intended, muttering, “Yes, of course. Can’t have anything looking…  _ unseemly _ .”

He was acutely aware of Crowley’s gaze lingering on him, sharp and searching even behind his glasses. 

“Course... my kind’s got no such hang-ups about…  _ optics _ ,” he pointed out, thoughtful, a little troubled. “What’d they do to  _ you _ , angel? Before.” 

“Oh, not much of anything,” Aziraphale lied with a dismissive wave of his hand. With dismay he noticed that it was trembling, and immediately wrapped it around his glass again. “About the same as your experience, I expect…” 

Crowley’s brow creased in a worried frown, his tone carrying a sharp, warning edge. “ _ Angel _ …”

“Oh,  _ enough _ !” Aziraphale protested, aware that the frustration in his voice was certainly not going to soothe Crowley’s suspicions. He opted for redirecting Crowley’s attention instead, setting down his glass and turning to face him more fully, reaching out a hand to rest on his knee. “Enough time wasted on  _ them _ and what they did or didn’t do. We left a rather interesting…  _ conversation _ , unfinished, didn’t we?” 

“Oh.” Crowley swallowed hard, staring down at Aziraphale’s hand on his leg, then reaching out a halting, tentative hand to cover it. “Yeah, uh… s’pose we did.” 

Aziraphale shifted in closer to him, sliding his hand up a little higher, and Crowley’s hand moved with his, but made no attempt to stop him. Aziraphale dropped his tone, his words coming out low and enticing.

“Where were we… exactly?” 

“Uh.” Crowley drew in a soft, shuddering breath, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment as Aziraphale moved in a little closer. 

It was ridiculously easy. Hardly even fair, really. But Aziraphale wasn’t being  _ entirely _ deceptive. 

They had certainly left off in a place he was rather eager to return to. 

At the end of the day the world didn’t end, Aziraphale and Crowley had boarded a bus together, with the inexplicable destination of London, and more specifically, the patch of street directly outside Crowley’s flat. His heart in his throat, pulse racing, Aziraphale had summoned every last shred of courage he possessed - and reached out to rest his hand over Crowley’s. 

After a moment’s stunned silence, and a piercing, bewildered stare that Aziraphale didn’t have the courage to return - Crowley had turned his hand under Aziraphale’s, threading their fingers together. When Aziraphale had finally ventured to look at him, he was wearing a shy, soft smile - and Aziraphale could scarcely wait until they were alone to kiss it from his lips. 

But that night, they hadn’t had the luxury to spend entirely in snogging on the sofa… or against the bookshop’s front door, as it were. 

They had to formulate a plan. 

They sat together in the back room, as they were sitting now, clinging to each other’s hands, each still trying to process the reality that it was safe, it was okay to do this - they could have this, now. 

But only if they made certain of it. 

They talked quietly, mulling over the prophecy and what it might mean and gradually piecing together a plan that  _ just might _ save them. And even once they felt as prepared as they were going to get the opportunity to become - neither of them really felt like taking things much further between them. 

Not yet. 

Not when it might still be cruelly snatched away from them. 

Aziraphale couldn’t stand the thought that their first time together might be their  _ only _ time. If he were to give himself to Crowley that night, only to lose him entirely in the morning - it’d simply hurt too much to be borne. So they waited in the quiet through the still, dark hours of early morning, talking through details, and doing little more than holding hands and snogging a bit. 

Aziraphale wanted to do a whole lot more than snogging right now. 

And it wasn’t just about distracting Crowley. He needed the distraction himself - needed to put it out of his mind. To forget about what had just happened, and focus on the future before them. 

It was over. They were safe. 

_ For now… _

_ Now. Just think about now… _

Aziraphale snapped his fingers, and immediately he and Crowley were no longer in the living room, but on the severely disused bed in the room next to it - amidst the piles of dusty books that covered it. 

On his back, propped up on his elbows, Crowley let out a startled, disbelieving little laugh, glancing around at their surroundings. He bit his lip for a moment, hesitating, before he deliberately removed his glasses and set them on the nightstand. He met Aziraphale’s eyes with a playful grin as he snapped his fingers. Immediately the books vanished - as did the floral-patterned bedspread and pillow sham, replaced in an instant by silk bedding in deep shades of red and gold. 

Aziraphale grimaced. “A bit cliche, isn’t it?” 

“And what was here before wasn’t?” Crowley countered, raising an eyebrow. 

“Do I  _ want _ to know where my books have gone?” 

“They’re undamaged, I promise,” Crowley assured him - and his teasing smile faded, his eyes going wide as Aziraphale lay down beside him, one hand reaching out to play gently through his hair. “I - I’ll put them back, soon as we’ve… as we’re…”

“Maybe not.” Aziraphale shrugged, cupping the back of Crowley’s head, holding him as he leaned in closer, until their lips were a breath apart. “I don’t suppose this will be the  _ last _ time we’ll… need the bed in this state…” 

“No,” Crowley whispered, swallowing slowly, his eyes focused on Aziraphale’s mouth. “S’pose not.” 

Aziraphale kissed him again, softly at first - then with greater enthusiasm as Crowley responded, one trembling hand rising to rest on Aziraphale’s shoulder, the other finding the collar of his shirt and tugging gently, pulling him in closer. In short order, his tartan bow-tie was gone, cast somewhere on the floor near the bed, and Crowley’s fingers found the top button of the angel’s shirt, working it free with eager urgency. 

  
  
  


_ “How  _ long _ it’s been, Crowley…”  _

_ The cold steel of a blade brushing against skin, as it slices the buttons from Crowley’s black shirt, exposing trembling flesh to the damp, fetid air that surrounds them - then sliding down his bare torso, terrifyingly slow as it traces a path to his navel, and then lower.  _

_ A snap of the fingers, and his shirt is off completely, and a rough, light, too-familiar hand trails teasingly down the bare skin of his back. Aziraphale can’t help shivering with dread, and the demon laughs, as his fingers fall to tease at the button of Crowley’s jeans.  _

_ “Don’t worry, little one,” he assures him with genuine regret. “I haven’t the time to replay  _ all  _ our sweetest moments…”  _

_ Hot sulphurous breath against his throat, fangs tearing into fragile skin, and Aziraphale can’t quite keep back a choked cry of startled pain, as the demon whispers into his ear.  _

_ “I’m afraid that  _ just a taste _ … will have to do…”  _

  
  
  


Aziraphale shuddered, his hand flying up to catch Crowley’s wrist. 

Crowley froze, looking up at him with troubled eyes. “Angel, what?” His tone was hushed with tender concern. “What is it, what’s wrong?” 

Aziraphale shook his head, schooling a grimace into some semblance of a smile. “Nothing, my dear, nothing at all, I’m sorry… please continue…” 

Crowley studied him too closely, not in the least convinced - but Aziraphale kissed his parted lips again, reaching down to tug at the hem of Crowley’s black t-shirt until he could pull it off over his head. Crowley gasped as Aziraphale’s hands slid over his bare skin, closing his eyes and laying his head back as his breath quickened. 

The sound was sickeningly familiar, and Aziraphale felt a cold sweat break out across his brow, his heart racing. 

  
  
  


_ The demon’s hands were cruel and grasping, and Aziraphale heard a broken whimper escape Crowley’s lips - Crowley’s voice, low and hoarse and desperate - but it was Aziraphale’s weakness that had driven it, Aziraphale’s shame at the sound. _

_ “Please… don’t…”  _

  
  
  


Crowley’s hands hesitated at the buckle of Aziraphale’s trousers, and the angel nodded quickly with an encouraging smile, though he couldn’t quite meet the searching, golden gaze that he could feel so acutely focused on him. 

“Yes, love,” Aziraphale whispered, reassuring. “Yes, please do…”

The leather slid free of the fabric loops, and the sound made Aziraphale’s heart lurch. 

  
  
  


_ The whistling sound of a leather strap singing through the air before it lands - followed by the hoarse, choked sob of pain that escapes Crowley’s lips.  _

_ “Yes, that’s it,” the demon sneers with cruel satisfaction. “Cry for me, Crowley…” _

  
  
  


“Yes, angel,” Crowley whispered, one hand tangling in Aziraphale’s hair as he kissed his way down his demon’s bare chest. “Yes, please, just… yes…” 

Aziraphale knew it wasn’t the same, he  _ knew _ it - and yet it  _ sounded  _ the same to his ears. The rough, ravaged timbre of Crowley’s voice, the helpless desperation, the pleading sound - and all at once, he simply  _ couldn’t.  _

He pulled away, turning his head, and Crowley immediately released his grip on Aziraphale’s hair, holding up his hands in front of him. “Sorry, sorry,” he gasped out, eyes wide and worried on Aziraphale’s face as he sat up a little, tilting his head downward in an attempt to find Aziraphale’s eyes. “What’d I do, angel? I’m sorry, what…?” 

“No, no, it isn’t you,” Aziraphale assured him, sitting up as well with a heavy sigh, unable to bring himself to meet Crowley’s searching gaze. “It’s just… I just…” 

Crowley’s hand reached out to touch his arm, gentle and concerned - and Aziraphale flinched. 

His heart immediately sank with regret, with the impending shame of revelation - as Crowley’s expression hardened, his posture going taut with anger. His voice was low and dangerous, his words measured and carefully controlled in a way that Crowley rarely ever was. 

“Just what did they do to you down there, angel?” When Aziraphale remained silent, Crowley persisted. “Tell me. The  _ truth _ .” 

“ _ They _ … didn’t exactly do anything,” Aziraphale hedged. “I - I’m quite certain that it wasn’t - officially a part of Hell’s - prescribed punishment. But there was just this - this one demon - I heard the others call him Malice…” 

“ _ Bloody fucking hell _ .” 

There was horror in Crowley’s hushed whisper, and he closed his eyes, turning away a little as he ran a hand down over his face, then shook his head slowly. “I haven’t seen or heard of him in centuries, I didn’t think he’d -  _ now, _ after all this…” 

Crowley turned anguished eyes back toward Aziraphale, reaching out a cautious hand to rest over Aziraphale’s fingers, which were picking anxiously at the flawless red sheet between them. Aziraphale’s hand went still, and he closed his eyes, shutting out the concern on Crowley’s face, swallowing slowly against the ache in the back of his throat. 

“Angel, I’m so sorry,” Crowley said, soft and sorrowful. “I should have warned you, I just - I didn’t think he’d even  _ show up _ for…” 

“So… you do know him.” Aziraphale’s heart sank as his suspicions were confirmed - and beyond his fearful, vivid memories, the low heat of anger stirred deep in his chest. “This…  _ Malice _ .” 

Crowley let out a soft, scoffing sound. “Calls himself that,” he amended, rolling his eyes. “Pretentious bastard, as if he was the first to ever  _ invent _ the intentional infliction of harm. He wasn’t.” He hesitated, and the soft, guarded sound of his voice when he spoke again stoked the flaring embers of protective anger in Aziraphale’s heart. 

“Pretty good at it, though. I’ll give him that.” 

“You… have a history, then. With this demon.” 

Crowley waved a dismissive hand, shaking his head a little - but the tension in his posture, the way his free arm wrapped loosely around his waist, spoke all too clearly. 

“Nothing to speak of. ‘S just what happens, yeah? He was more powerful than I was. I crossed him. Made the century or so after that... a bit more hellish than was strictly necessary, that’s all.” 

“That’s all,” Aziraphale echoed, flat and unconvinced. 

He could still feel the way the demon’s hands had ghosted over his skin - familiar and cruel. 

Only - it  _ wasn’t  _ his skin. 

_ Wasn’t even you… _

“Crowley, you speak as if it’s  _ normal _ …”

“Yes, well… down there, it is.” Crowley sounded vaguely defensive, and he wouldn’t meet Aziraphale’s eyes anymore. “Anyway, ‘s not about me, is it? Just wish I’d thought to warn you. Must have been - Heaven, a  _ thousand years _ since he’s been anywhere  _ near _ me. It never occurred to me he’d - take advantage of - of the…” His words trailed off, and he swallowed slowly, staring down at the bed. “Angel, did - did he…?” 

It took Aziraphale a moment to realize what Crowley was suggesting - and all at once he felt sick. 

“No, love,” he assured Crowley, turning his hand in Crowley’s and gently squeezing it. “No, he didn’t.” 

Malice hadn’t violated his body -  _ Crowley’s _ body - in the way that Crowley was implying. It had been violation enough, being stripped naked, helplessly bound while the demon put his hands on him - but the assault had never crossed the line into a sexual one. 

Not - not quite. Not -  _ overtly _ . 

_ He didn’t have time, remember? That’s what he said… _

Aziraphale knew exactly what Crowley’s question meant. He looked up into Crowley’s eyes, which were searching his face with troubled uncertainty. Immediately Crowley looked away, swallowing hard. 

“Don’t look at me like that, angel,” he pleaded, his voice hoarse, hushed and vulnerable. “ _ You’re _ the one was just tortured.” 

“In a sense,” Aziraphale pointed out, cautious. “In a way, it  _ was _ you…” 

“You were the one that was  _ there _ .” Crowley’s tone was firm. “You’re the one that felt it. Went through it.” 

Aziraphale was quiet. He couldn’t deny the truth of the words - or the fluttering unease that hadn’t left his stomach since the moment that Malice had first touched him. He closed his eyes for a moment, drawing in a shaky breath. When he felt Crowley’s gentle arms slide around him and carefully draw him close, he gratefully turned into the embrace, resting his head against Crowley’s shoulder.

“Yes, I - I suppose you’re right,” he admitted, the words hoarse and unsteady. “It - it  _ was _ \- quite awful.” 

“Oh, angel,” Crowley murmured, his voice aching with regret as he brushed a gentle kiss against Aziraphale’s temple. “‘M so sorry…”

“Well, they can’t touch us  _ now _ ,” Aziraphale reminded him, lifting his head and drawing back a little, struggling to steady himself. There was a quiet, desperate ferocity in his words. “They won’t dare.” 

“Either of us,” Crowley agreed with a resolute nod. “Might as well just forget it.” 

“Quite right.” 

An awkward, weighted silence fell between them as they sat there together on the bed, holding onto each other for dear life. Neither of them had to point out how useless were their words - but both knew. 

_ Forgetting  _ wasn’t a possibility. 

Not when it was so close, so clear, in Aziraphale’s mind that it might as well have still been happening. To his shame and dismay, Aziraphale felt his eyes burn… felt his mouth tremble as his breath hitched slightly. He blinked to clear his vision, and the tears slid down his face, hot and stinging. 

“ _ Aziraphale _ …” Crowley’s voice was unbearably soft, and his hand tugged gently at Aziraphale’s as he leaned back against the headboard, pulling him in close again. “C’mere, angel… that’s it…” 

Aziraphale complied, sinking down against the mattress, nestled in close to Crowley’s side, closing his eyes and focusing on the soft heat of Crowley’s arms wrapped around him, the rhythmic, soothing slide of long, elegant fingers through his hair. 

“Our side,” Crowley reminded him in a hushed, tender whisper. “We don’t belong to any of them anymore. Not in any way. Just…” he hesitated, and the aching vulnerability in his voice pulled at Aziraphale’s heart as he concluded, “... just to each other.” 

Aziraphale lifted his head to meet Crowley’s eyes, holding his gaze with fierce intensity. “That’s right,” he confirmed. “Yours and mine, none other.” 

The relief in Crowley’s eyes, the way his shoulders fell and he let out a rasping, shuddering breath, revealed the weight he’d been carrying… his doubts and insecurities... and Aziraphale could do nothing but put his arms around him, draw him in closer and kiss away every last trace of uncertainty from his trembling lips. 

After a few moments, Aziraphale drew back a little - just enough to carefully remove the shirt he’d prevented Crowley from removing before. His heart flooded with a rush of affection for his demon, as Crowley’s eyes looked him over, solemn and searching, as if he might find some trace of the injuries inflicted on Aziraphale - even though he hadn’t even been wearing his own body when it happened. 

Crowley froze as realization dawned on him, and he closed his eyes, resting the crown of his head against Aziraphale’s bare chest and shaking his head with a rueful little huff of laughter. Aziraphale shivered at the soft puff of air, the tickling brush of Crowley’s hair against his skin, and he ran a hand gently down Crowley’s side, reassuring himself with the feeling of the unbroken expanse he felt there. 

“I healed it all, anyway,” he explained. “Didn’t want you hurting when you got back into your own body.” 

“Didn’t want me knowing they’d hurt  _ you _ , ‘s more like it.” Crowley raised his eyes in a severe look. 

“Didn’t want  _ you hurt _ ,” Aziraphale repeated firmly, then added softly after a moment’s consideration, “In  _ any _ way.” 

Crowley swallowed slowly, holding Aziraphale’s gaze. “Bit late,” he whispered. “For both of us.” 

Aziraphale touched his face, gently brushing his thumb across Crowley’s cheek. 

“ _ Never again _ ,” he swore. 

Crowley’s golden eyes blazed with protective fire, and he rose up to kiss Aziraphale with fierce intensity, turning them so that he could push Aziraphale down onto his back on the bed. Only breaking the kiss when they both felt a little breathless, Crowley drew back, running his fingers through Aziraphale’s hair as he echoed his angel’s promise. 

“ _ Never _ . Won’t ever let ‘em  _ touch _ you again.” 

Aziraphale was startled by how the words warmed him, the sense of security and safety they instilled in him. He felt as if he should have felt a little silly. After all, he was a trained warrior. Crowley was… more of an artist. Over the centuries as their relationship had grown and developed, Aziraphale had become fiercely protective of Crowley, worrying over him when he was gone for too long, fretting both silently and aloud about what could happen to Crowley if his side ever learned of their arrangement. He’d gradually found himself with no choice but to admit the truth - he’d do  _ anything _ to protect Crowley. 

But now, looking into Crowley’s eyes, he could see the sentiment reflected back at him, and it felt… exhilarating. Overwhelming. 

His heart too full to speak, Aziraphale just smiled and pulled Crowley down into another kiss, relishing in the feeling of security and protection he felt here, in the quiet stillness they shared. 

It was only the two of them here… only the two of them, from this moment, and no one could touch them. 

Aziraphale allowed the feeling of Crowley’s hands, careful, almost reverent as they slid over his skin - the taste of Crowley’s kiss, lips soft and tender against his mouth - to wash away the phantom touch of malicious hands. He focused on on Crowley’s tender whispers against his ear, and allowed them to drown out the menacing words, the threats leveled against him. 

Against  _ Crowley _ . 

The thought filled him with a rush of righteous, protective fury - and a determination to do for Crowley what Crowley was doing for him. 

He wasn’t going to let  _ anyone _ hurt Crowley - not ever again. 

He was going to protect him - and to  _ love _ him, with these hands, with this mouth, until the gentleness and the closeness they were sharing was what felt natural and normal to Crowley - not the memory of repeated suffering at the hands of those more powerful than him. He wanted to overwrite Crowley’s painful memories - and his own - with new ones, of moments  _ exactly like this _ . 

_ This _ would be their new “normal”. 

They were free now - and it was going to take a bit of getting used to. 

But they had time - and Aziraphale was looking forward to taking as much of it as he wanted, just holding and sheltering Crowley in his arms - and taking shelter in him. 

They passed most of the night with soft kisses, and then…  _ less _ soft kisses. Tender touches with careful, trembling fingers, shyly exploring in ways they’d craved for centuries, but never allowed themselves to have. Few words passed between them; their communication was clear enough without them, as they just held each other and revelled in the intoxicating closeness. 

Sometime around dawn, his face buried in Aziraphale’s neck, Crowley whispered a hoarse, halting, “ _ Love you _ , angel…”

Aziraphale could hear the ache of desperation there - the terrifying vulnerability Crowley’s honesty had cost him - and felt tears spring to his own eyes, his hand trembling as he raised it to cup the back of Crowley’s head, holding him close. 

“I think I’ve always loved you,” he whispered back, closing his eyes as he felt Crowley’s body shudder against him with relief at his words. “Even if I haven’t always known it.” 

Crowley clung to him in the early morning haze, his body trembling, and if there were tears, Aziraphale let them go unnoticed - because they only meant that Crowley didn’t notice his, either, as they traced down his cheeks, leaving cool tracks in their wake as they lay there, still and quiet - cherishing their hard-won peace, and unwilling to shatter it with a careless motion or word. 

Aziraphale’s tears were born of  _ relief  _ \- and yes, of the remnants of fear and trauma that was technically in the past, yet still too fresh to be forgotten. Of grief for time wasted, and gratitude for the time that yet stretched out before them. 

He knew better than to think that it would be easy - or to think that Heaven and Hell would  _ never _ dare come after them again. 

But - they had some time. 

They were safe. For now. 

And when the time came that they were not, that they had to once again fight for their freedom and for their love - they’d face it  _ together _ . 

And they’d be ready.


End file.
